Restore Session After Crash
by BachelorJohnWatson
Summary: How I picture the events post Reichenbach. Not a slashy story, but I'm a sucker for bromances. English isn't my first language and this is my first fic ever, so reviews are more than welcome but please be kind. Rated T because I live in fear. Well, if this isn't a catchy summary. Ugh, I'm the worst.
1. The Funeral

The room is quiet.  
John Watson is sitting, staring in front of him.  
His gaze isn't fixed on something in particular; he just looks lost, empty, almost on the verge of sleep.  
There's silence all around him, a heavy one, but it almost makes a sound.  
His vision is getting blurry.  
Have you ever felt like you're paralyzed, unable to move, but your mind is screaming and your brain is yelling at you "GO, STAND UP, I'M COUNTING TO THREE, THEN YOU'LL STAND UP, STAND UP!"?  
John Watson is experiencing one of those moments. Although, to be honest, he's not completely motionless: his left index finger is twitching while his hand is resting carelessly on his knees.  
He is used to this, but these sensations usually came right before waking up, some sort of lucid rigor mortis, something he became accustomed to, almost a blessing if it meant not waking up sweating and screaming.  
It was either this, or that.

Minutes pass as if they're weeks.  
He starts to hear voices and noises in the distance, like kids playing in the street or maybe neighbors talking out loud? He doesn't know, he doesn't care and he just hopes they're not talking to him.  
A tentative hand reaches his shoulder.

_Am I felling this? Is this real? Is there someone here with me? WAKE UP._

Suddenly his eyes are focusing in front of him, sharp and responsive, he can see the dust floating through a ray of sunshine coming from the window.

- John?

_I can't talk. I can't move my mouth. Is this a bad thing? _

- John, are you with us?

_I never noticed that chip in the wood on the mantelpiece. Wonder how he did it. _

- John, you're scaring me. Do you want tea?

_You're scared and you ask me if I want tea? That's very British of you. Whoever you are. _

His mouth twitches and in a second it's like a wave of consciousness shakes him from the inside, like a retch but without puking: his brain takes in hours of information in an instant, like a computer rebooting trying to figure out what you did moments before everything shut down. What did you save last?

A funeral.


	2. Pierrot The Clown

- John...John? ...JOHN!

He lets out a loud sigh and starts rubbing his face with both hands.

- Stop calling my name, I'm right here!  
- Okay, it's okay, calm down. You just seemed a bit…off.

He looks at the person sitting next to him, eyes roaming as if he's trying to search a name in the database: Harry.

- Yeah, well, it happens after your best friend's funeral. I'm sorry I'm not the usual clown.

He stands up, fighting the gravity that feels like a punishment and trying to not give away the excruciating pain in his leg: for a moment he doesn't really know what to do next.

_Tea? Coffee? A gun? Maybe I'll just jump from the balcony, seems like a trend these days. _

He lets the last phrase sink in his brain, realizing what he just thought.

_Oh well, what do you know, maybe I still am a clown. _

- I didn't mean that, John, I just…  
- Doesn't matter, don't care, you can go.

Harry sits quiet, slightly embarrassed. She's not great with this kind of stuff, she can only imagine his brother's pain and frustration and she really, genuinely, doesn't know how to handle all of this.  
In the kitchen, John is leaning against the counter, arms crossed and eyes closed, waiting for the kettle to be ready: he's still feeling awful for the bad joke and he just wants to lift his chin, look up and whisper "sorry". But then again, if Sherlock were there he would have said something like "don't be ridiculous John, it's just a ceiling, at least look up at the sky if you want some ghost to hear you".  
A sudden and sharp pain in his chest makes him cringe while another hand lands on his shoulder: he shudders at the unexpected touch, but he's still keeping his eyes closed, breathing from his nose in frustration.

_Who else is here, isn't one enough, what's the deal with you people, can I just hate myself in peace without you lot touching me, looking at me like I'm a kitten under a storm? For fuck's sake, what is wrong with y-…._

- John.

His eyes suddenly open; his nostrils are dilated with rage, trying to suck in all the energy it takes to not punch him right there, right now…

…_I don't really fucking care how high in the British Government you are, you giant piece of s-_

- He mentioned you in his will.

John can't believe his ears: in a second he went from pure, cutting rage to a mind-numbing disdain and surprise, deciding to broke the promise he made to himself, never to speak to him again.

- Your brother is dead, Mycroft. His body was smashed on a sidewalk, his last words to me, or to anyone for that matter, were lies, blatant and shameless lies, he told me he was a fake, I heard him cry for God's sake, have you ever seen your dear brother cry, your Majesty? It's not something you forget easily, it burns your heart, hearing Sherlock Holmes sobbing and hating himself, carelessly admitting defeat, a man so full of himself he thinks the solar system is useless information, and he's standing on a rooftop, begging me to look at him, confessing to his only friend that his whole life, his work, his being, his soul, was just a lie, just a magic trick, just something he used to impress people, can you honestly believe it? Just take a moment in your oh so busy and posh life to think about that, do you really believe your brother killed himself? Do you really believe in the possibility of a suicidal Sherlock Holmes? Because, and this is just a thought, I think there's more to it. For starters, I think you sold your brother to the "most dangerous man the world's ever seen", I don't care why, I don't care if you thought, hey, I'm the sodding British Government, I don't have time for my little brother play-dates, I don't care if you underestimated the consequence of your careless actions, I don't care about your excuses – if you have any – because they can't bring him back, and you know what? I'm the one who gets to live here, alone, without my best friend and with just one constant, crushing thought: why? Why in the world did he lie to me, why did he lie to himself, I know who he was, the word "brilliant" doesn't give him justice, he was more than that, his brain was mesmerizing, calling him smart it's almost an insult, he wasn't a fake, so why, why on earth did he do that, and it's been three days and my brain it's rotting around that question, and – honest to God – part of me hopes to never find an answer because if I stop thinking about that, If I stop keeping my mind busy I'm afraid I'll start realizing what really happened, and in that moment nothing will make sense to me, knowing how, and why and what really happened that day won't matter, because it won't change the fact that Sherlock is dead and he's never coming back and I don't know if I can cope with that. So yes, Mycroft, tell me, please tell me what you think couldn't wait more, I want to hear all about that, do you think I should take notes?

Silence falls all around them; the only thing John hears is his ragged breathing that is starting to make him dizzy while his nails are digging into his palms and his ears feel like they're on fire.  
The next thing he hears is the creak of the pavement behind him.  
John turns around to see Harry, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Stamford all looking at him, some of them in shock, some of them with a look of sadness and pity on their faces, and when his gaze turns on Mycroft's again, he almost feels sorry for what he did.  
Not for what he said, because there's a hint of relief for what just happened, but he knows it wasn't the best time to do that, not in front of everybody.  
John tries to relax, to breathe normal again, while attempting to make excuses for himself.

- I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't know…I don't….I'm sorry folks, 't was…rude.

Molly tries to break the ice, failing miserably as usual:

- It was a bit not good, yeah.

John chuckles trying to fight back the tears while he turns to Mycroft.

- Can this wait?

The older Holmes' face is emotionless, even that customary smug smirk is absent, as if John were a kid who just had a tantrum.

- Of course. I'll just leave this here.

Mycroft carefully places an envelope on the kitchen table while he leaves, and John is suddenly focusing on all the real things Sherlock left behind: the books, the microscope, all this test tubes, petri dish, this unidentified wobbly material…

…_oh God, what if there's an eye in the microwave and an arm in the fridge? A piece of liver in my strawberry jam and a decomposing bone near the bread? When I complained about it he usually took care of it, what do I do, who do I call, where do I-…_

This day needs to end, he needs sleep, proper one. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

- I'm sorry; I think I need to be alone.  
- Yes, yes of course dear, I'll be downstairs if you need me, okay?  
- Thanks Mrs. H.

Molly just smiles shyly to him – _was that guilt?_ –, Lestrade gives him a clumsy pat on the shoulder while Stamford hugs him effortlessly. John turns around to face Harry who looks deeply worried.

- Are you sure you're okay? After all…this?  
- Yes, Harry, it's because of what just happened that I'm okay. Don't worry. Go home.  
- If you need me…  
- …yeah, I know, I know, I'll just flash the Batman sign in the sky.  
- Stop it.

John smiles.

- 'Night Harry.

In a moment John finds himself alone with the familiar burning sensation in his heart.  
He laughs at the irony of Moriarty's words that day at the pool: he really did it; he really did burn the heart out of Sherlock.  
He walks to the fridge searching for something to drink that's not bloody tea again – _I'm tired of tea…that's really something to discuss with a therapist _– and hoping to find just food, while constantly eyeing the envelope on the kitchen table, like it would suddenly jump at him and kick him in the stomach.  
After a long shower and some cereal, he finally gives in: he grabs the envelope and climbs the stairs to this room.


	3. Little by Little

A nervous laugh escapes John's mouth.

_Well that's a breakthrough. From lying on a table to lying on a nightstand, what do you expect Watson, are you trying to burn it with the power of cowardice? Just do it._

John lies on his back, watching the ceiling, finally whispering "I'm sorry" like he wanted to.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry, ceiling. Jesus Christ, why are you laughing again? _

He feels the irrational need to punish himself for that, although he knows it's his strange way to cope with all this: he reaches for the envelope right next to him without even watching his movements, he closes his eyes and opens it.

He holds his breath but soon he realizes it's just a will. It's all lawer-y and it has Mycroft written all over it.  
John doesn't know whether to be sad or relieved: he opts for flabbergasted, given that Sherlock has left him a huge amount of money, enough to contemplate a year off.

_He could have paid a cabbie once in a while, that cheap bastard. And I could use some time off. No, no I don't, I need work, something to keep my mind busy. Sarah, I need to call Sarah, first thing tomorrow._

He decides to have a lawyer look at the papers and folds them right back into the envelope, when he feels something else inside of it, a little piece of paper, more rigid than the other ones, feels like a…piece of cardboard box. He reaches for it and flips it over:

**You're right. Keep thinking**. SH

Suddenly the bed feels like it's moving, the sheets are heavy as lead on his legs and John throws away the little piece of paper like it's on fire: his brain is working fast, too fast for his movements to keep up with his thoughts, so he finds himself with his phone in one hand, the envelope in the other, only one shoe on, and – catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror –messily dressed with a suit, the only suit he has.

_Did I…did I just dress like Sherlock? _

He doesn't have time to question his actions; he just puts the other shoe on and starts running towards the door.


	4. What's Happening Brother

**Thanks for the kind words, I really appreciate it since I'm doing all this without a Beta Reader and I'm constantly wondering if I'm doing something wrong. So, yeah, again, reviews and comments are more that welcome. I'd say mandatory.** :D

* * *

Mycroft is sitting in his office.  
It's late and he should be home but he doesn't want to be in a place where he has to explain someone his state of mind, and his current one is pretty obvious: he keeps clearing his throat just to fight the urge to cry, his eyes are watery, he fumbles with papers he doesn't even read and absent-mindedly checks his e-mail every now and then.

_It's midnight Mycroft, what are you doing? _

He rests his head on his hands, sighing deeply just to get a hold of himself.  
This isn't him: the usually calm and detached, placid but always perceptive and sarcastic Mycroft is not here tonight.  
The doctor's words are still ringing in his ears and it pains him to admit he's right: he sold his brother for the sake of his country but he never thought this would be a case of one loss to save millions, and not just a random one, but his brother's.  
Mycroft will never forgive himself for what happened and what makes things so much worse is that he'll have to carry on with his usual act, with his proverbial british aplomb and indifference.

_Why did we hate each other so much? _

He slams a fist on his desk, glad that nobody is there to question him, but after a while the silence is interrupted by a deep voice coming from the door.

- Must be painful for you.

The voice is unmistakable and suddenly Mycroft regains his usual self, smirking with his head still resting on his hands, hoping his now resurrected brother didn't see too much.

- I saw all of it.  
- Of course you did, baby brother.  
- Don't call me that.  
- You just lost the right to complain for at least five years.

Mycroft lifts his gaze to meet Sherlock's: he smiles and lets his eyes inspect his brother's body, searching for injuries or maybe just checking if it's real and if it casts a shadow.

- Want me to explain?  
- There's no need.  
- Of course, my fat brother.

Sherlock maintains his customary superior tone but there's a hint of a smile on his face, relieved to see that his brother actually cares about him, despite traditions and appearances.

_John._

In a moment, his thoughts immediately go to the other important man in his life, his flatmate, his colleague, his moral compass, his doctor, his blogger, his best friend: all of this because of him.

Of course, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are also involved, but to be fair and honest with himself - even though he wouldn't want anything bad happening to them – he could have lived with the thought of those two people not being alive anymore: he'd be hard, and painful and certainly not easy to stand the idea of being the cause of their death, but the thought of losing John and being the one to pull a symbolic trigger made him lose his mind and at the same time made him more lucid than ever.  
Clearly, being the Sherlock Holmes that he is, he had a plan, he figured out a way to survive, but he never argued with the future course of event: he had to jump to save John and he jumped, no questions asked.  
The pain it caused him to do so and to see John right before his seemingly dead eyes, while his gaze was desperately trying to spot a sign of life in him, was unbelievable, quite literally.  
Sherlock's lack of experience in this case really caught him by surprise: it was all new to him, the feeling of emptiness, the sudden realization of the loss that comes out of nowhere, the grip of pain that takes hold of his heart at the most random of moments, making his breath hitch.

…_he really did burn the heart out of me._

- …and above all that, have you thought of mummy before doing such a reckless thing? …Sherlock?  
- I'm sorry, I had better things to do with my mind than listen to you rant about your missing cake.

Mycroft exhales trying to remain calm.

- You came here for a reason, am I right? What do you want Sherlock.  
- You know how much it pains me to admit it, but I need your help. Or, to put it better, I need the help of your position.  
- I don't have powers.  
- Don't talk to me like I'm a twenty-something waitress you're trying to impress with false modesty. Will you help me or not?  
- You know I will.  
- Then shut up and listen to me. John is about t-…

Mycroft's mobile starts to ring: he gives it a quick glance and smiles while Sherlock stops his pacing around the room.

- You were saying?  
- He's going to ask you about the piece of paper in the envelope.  
- Oh, by the way, why-…  
- I don't have time for this, answer the phone.

Sherlock walks towards a huge closet at the end of Mycroft's office.

- Care to explain what are you doing right now?  
- Why are you whispering, you haven't picked up the phone yet. Answer it or he will go mental on you like you're some kind of chip and pin machine. Do it.

Mycroft grits his teeth and takes a deep breath with his eyes closed.

- Yes?  
- Don't "yes" me. I know you're here, I'm outside your office, I know your window, the light is on, let me in, don't unleash your minions on me and just open the goddam-…  
- Calm down John, what's happening?  
- You know damn well what's going on. .in.

A couple of minutes later John slams the door to Mycroft's office looking like someone who just escaped from a shotgun wedding.

- What's the occasion?

Without saying a word, the doctor slams the little piece of paper on the desk while Mycroft's eyes carefully slides from John's gaze.

- I see. Did you try to answer your questions before alerting the government or you're just too lazy?  
- Do you really want to get in argument with me Mycroft, right the bloody now?

In the meantime, hidden in the closet, Sherlock finds himself strangely amused by all this.

- Apologies, John, I know just as much as you do. I assumed he found this piece of paper on the rooftop and he tried to…  
- …get through to me this way fearing someone could listen to him?  
- I presume so.

Silence falls again between the two of them but this time John is too deep in his thoughts to realize it: while he's staring at the little piece of paper, Mycroft tries to break the tension clearing his throat.

- Looks like he left you a piece of a new puzzle. But John…

The doctor suddenly looks up to catch the man's eyes, which in the meantime have gotten soft as his voice did.

- …it doesn't mean anything. He's still… He's gone.  
- I know Mycroft, I'm not a four year old kid, I saw him dead before my eyes. I know he's not coming back. Once again, you fail to understand what's right in front of you. You see but you do not observe.

Sherlock smiles with pride at those words.

- I know he's not coming back, but this means he wasn't lying. Well, he was, but not about whom he truly is. I mean…was.

John shuffles on his feet, running his right hand thru his hair.

- This means something to me, this means I've not wasted months of my life to be beside a fraud. I never thought I did, but if I dig enough into this I can convince other people to think so too. At least I hope so.

Mycroft doesn't know what to say to this: he doesn't know what Sherlock plans are, what he wants John to do with this new piece of information, he doesn't know if he just wanted to give him hope and relief or if he actually needs some kind of indirect assistance from his best man. He decides to just smile condescendingly, hoping in some future guidance on how to handle this.

John doesn't say a word while he walks away, but Mycroft tries to alleviate the tones with a question.

- What about your…outfit?  
- What about it?  
- You look like an escaped groom.  
- Yeah, I guess I do. I don't know what happened. When I found the message all I could think of was Sherlock and when I tried to dress myself up while panicking I think my subconscious chose this outfit for a reason.

He tries to straighten himself up a bit.

- I will never be able to pull this off like he did. That lean bugger.


	5. Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me

- You're out of the closet.  
- Ha. Funny. Very mature of you.

Sherlock slowly walks to his brother's desk and flops down on one of the chairs: with the light of the table lamp, Mycroft can now see the signs of weariness on his face, the dark circles around his eyes and his bitten lips.

_He looks awful; please don't tell me he's sleeping on a bench with his "homeless buddies"; I could not stand the idea of him-…_

- Molly.  
- I beg your pardon?  
- I'm staying at Molly's, for now. I sleep on her couch and, believe me, a bench would be an improvement.  
- I see.

Mycroft offers Sherlock one of his famous fake smiles and patiently waits for him to say something - how, when, who, what now - but after a while it's clear to him that his brother just need some time to recollect his thoughts: his head is leaning back, his eyes are closed and his hands are gripping the armrests, making his knuckles turn white.

- If you wish to be alone, I can just-…  
- No, I'm fine, let's do this.  
- What do you need?  
- Intelligence. Moriarty is dead but his network is alive and kicking. I have to destroy it and I know where to start but I need all you can get me on Ronald Aidar.  
- Ronald Adair? He's a known gambler, got arrested a couple of times, what do you need it for?

Sherlock shuffles on his seat and grows impatient.

- He's very close to someone, someone connected to Moriarty. Actually, it's more than that, he was his right-hand man. He's an amateur athlete, a high skilled shooter and was probably the one appointed to target John. He's an ex-soldier and I have a feeling he's looking for revenge. But he's not in London at the moment so I need his files too.  
- His name?  
- Colonel Sebastian Moran.  
- What are you going to do? Do you have a plan, did you think this through?  
- Of course I did, I'm not from Scotland Yard.

Mycroft stares at his brother with worried eyes and Sherlock decides to drop the act.

- I have a plan. I'm not going to rush it, he knows who I am and he knows I'm alive. If he wanted to kill me I'd be dead already, so he does not act on impulse and that's something that…worries me. He's planning, brooding, and I fear for John's life. Keep an eye on him would you?  
- I will but-…  
- You don't have to worry about me. I'm mentally, physically and economically stable.  
- Economically? You left John a fortune, how's that possible?  
- I've always had something prepared for emergencies like this one. I'm actually surprised it took so long.  
- Only someone like you could see a life threatening situation as something to look forward to.  
- I'm not, it's just…  
- Stimulating?

Sherlock holds his brother's gaze for a while, challenging him.

- I have to go.  
- Sure you do.  
- When you get the files send one of your minions to Molly's. You know the address.

Mycroft gives him a nod and watches his brother walk away; alone in his office again, he reaches for his mobile.

- Detective Inspector Lestrade? Mycroft Holmes. I'm sorry to disturb you at this ungodly hour of night but it's sort of an emergency. We need to talk.


	6. Woke Up this Morning

**I know it's a kind of slow story, I just don't like long and prolix chapters. Hope you guys still manage to find it interesting**.

* * *

It's a warm day outside when John receives a call on his day off from work.

He silently curses himself for not turning it off and lets his mobile ring three times, dropping the newspaper on the coffee table and watching the screen as it lit up in his hands.

- Lestrade. What's up?

He follows the lines of his left eyebrow with his thumb, sensing a massive migraine on the way.

- John, hi. So sorry, I know it's your day off, but I need your help. Could you please come at 427 Park Lane?  
- Do you really need my help? Or are you just...trying to keep me busy?  
- I actually need your help John. Sherlock was right; sometimes Anderson is a proper idiot.

He laughs, but with a hint of sadness that he doesn't even bother to hide anymore.

- Right then, I guess I have no choice. Be there as soon as I can.  
**  
**

At the crime scene, Lestrade is walking towards John, nodding in his direction and quickly putting the doctor up to speed.

- Murder. Male, late twenties, Ronald Adair. Apparently a known gambler, wealthy family though.

John tries to catch up with the man's fast pace, and his newfound limp doesn't help: he swallows the pain, trying not to think about the fact that it's all in his head and he knows exactly when it began.  
They enter a huge Victorian house and John looks around amazed, trying to figure out why a young man with huge amounts of money would find himself gambling.

- He was found in his office, locked from the inside, shot in the head. No one was home at the time of the murder, his sister and mother were out and when they came back they found the door locked, the man not responding to their cries and knocking. They called for help and found him like that.

Lestrade is pointing at a big blood stain on the carpet; John looks around the room, uncertain and annoyed, and then back at Lestrade.

- Just to be on the same page, what can you possibly need from me? He was shot in the head, no mystery on that, the murder weapon it's not here – obviously –, the door is locked from the inside so the murderer probably escaped from the window, and you know I'm not "CSI Baker Street" so I can't help you with bullet tracing, although even Anderson could have noticed the bullet hole on the opposite wall. So why am I here, Lestrade?

John stops moving his arms around the room and locks his gaze on Lestrade's face.

- Despite what you think, John, we're not complete morons. We thought about that but there's no forced entry, no signs of a fall from a second floor, nothing.

He hesitates for a second, looking guilty for what he's about to say, shifting on his feet and touching his nose before he resumes talking.

- Look, I know you're not him and I know he was the only "consulting detective" in the word, but you were his partner and I thought you could...help me? It may seem like nonsense to you, but I think you actually learned something from him.

John looks hurt: he wiggles the fingers of his left hand and makes a fist. He didn't know Lestrade was actually capable of something like that, after all the hell he's been through, after all the pain, not mentioning the fact that John still sees him as the cause of Sherlock's - literal and metaphorical - fall.

_And how could you possibly think of me as a replacement?_

- Goodbye Lestrade.  
- John, wait, you know what I mean.  
- Have a nice day, Greg. Give my regards to your wife. Or did she ask for the divorce again?

He yells without even looking at him, running down the long stairs feeling both guilty and strangely proud of himself.  
John storms off the big doorway and, as he's about to turn the corner, he bumps into an homeless man with a cart full of rubbish: he doesn't pay much attention to him, he just tries to help him picking up his stuff but the homeless man grunts and yells and forces John to walk away.

In the meantime, back at the crime scene, Lestrade is on the phone.

- I'm not doing this again. You should have seen the look on his face. He was crushed.  
- I'm well aware of that, but he needs a push, he needs to be on a certain path to find the truth about-…  
- Still, I'm not doing this again. Goodbye Mycroft.


	7. After the Storm

**This is a huge flash forward in the story, I thought there was no point in waiting.**  
**This chapter introduces Mary Morstan and - just a heads-up – I've always pictured her as Emilie de Ravin.**  
**I don't know about you guys but I like to put a face to a name while reading, so there you go, she's "my" Mary. Also, thank you so, so much for the feedbacks and the story alerts. You have no idea how happy this makes me.  
**

* * *

_Eight months later_

John is running: he's late and he keeps checking the time, thinking about dumping his bag into the Thames just to run faster. He runs for about ten minutes, gasping with a burning sensation in his chest, and when he finally manages to get close to his destination, he leans against a wall, trying to get his breath back to normal.

_God, I'm getting old. At least chasing criminals around London kept me in shape. Now I'm just a plain, boring, doct-_

- John!  
- Mary! Mary I'm so sorry, I had to work late at the surgery, and it's the flu season, so many kids and-…

Mary walks towards his boyfriend, smiling.

- I know John, you're a doctor, there's no need to-…  
- No, listen to me, I have no excuses. It's just…I ran out of gas and I had a flat tire. I didn't have enough money for cab fare. My tux didn't come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from out of town. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts! It wasn't my fault I swear to God!

The young women bursts into laughter while reaching John and putting her arms around his neck.

- I really am sorry, you know.  
- I know, but you're a doctor and I don't mind. Actually, I've always dreamed of saying things like "oh well, you know, my boyfriend is a doctor, I'm used to this, no big deal".

John laughs and gives her a quick peck on the lips.

- Are you hungry?

Mary smiles at him and nods.

John and Mary met six months ago, in an old bookshop: they were browsing around when they both reached for the same book, and old French edition of Le Temps Retrouvé.  
She looked up at him and smiled, saying "this looks like the beginning of a really cheesy movie", and that was all John Watson needed to hear.  
Mary Morstan looks a lot younger than she really is; she's a petite thirty-year-old woman, blonde and lean, with naturally pouty lips and a round face, but the thing that John loves the most about her is the ability to switch from a childish look to a fierce one: her blue eyes immediately captured his attention.  
At first John was afraid of this new relationship: it was hard for him to admit that Sherlock took all of his time and that he actually gave up on women after a while, not minding at all.  
He was getting used to his flatmate sabotaging all his attempts to a stable romantic situation, accustomed to thinking that it was only Sherlock's fault - knowing damn well it wasn't - but now he's gone and John worried he might jeopardize all of it just because he was used to.  
One day, he decided to confess his fears to Mary and the reaction he got was a felt laugh.  
"Who cares? I mean, don't get me wrong, I care about you, I really do. I like you and most of all I admire and respect you, I think you're a brave man, loyal and honest and you're everything I want. What I mean is that…I usually tend not to make a big deal about things. Sometimes this gets me in trouble, I can't put a number on how many times I've been accused of being heartless, when actually I'm quite the opposite, it's just that I have a different approach to things. I care for one thing only: the truth. If you're not sure about us, right now, two years from now, a day before our wedding, you have to tell me. Promise?".  
To this day, John refers to this speech as the moment he fell in love with Mary.

Right now, as they walk down the street, John finally realizes the address she gave him.

- This restaurant we're going to…  
- Yes?  
- Is it…Angelo's?  
- Yes, why? You know about it?

John stops in the middle of the sidewalk and tries to mumble something, unable to watch Mary in the eyes.

_Am I shaking? Why am I shaking? It's not okay, it's been months, I need to get over this, I need to-…  
_  
- John? What's wrong? You're sweating.  
- Nothing, it's just….

He stares at his girlfriend trying to come up with a suitable explanation, a lie maybe.

_No, I don't need to._

- It's just. Nothing, it reminds me of Sherlock, that's all.  
- I'm so sorry John, I didn't-…  
- Clearly, it's not your fault.

Mary doesn't know what to do: she tries to reach John's shoulder fearing he'd suddenly run away from her, but when he leans into the touch she relaxes and hugs him, nuzzling her nose against his neck and drawing circles on his back with her right hand.

- Do you want to go home? It's fine, I'm more than happy with Chinese takeaway and crap telly as long as I'm with you.

John clears his throat and smiles.

- It's alright. Actually, you know what? The other day I was talking to an old colleague of mine and he told me about this place near-…  
- A colleague?  
- Yes, I met him at the grocery store. I have to say, I can't remember him. He was happy as a clam to see me "after all these years" and I couldn't remember him. I think he sensed that, because he said we fought in Afghanistan together, but he was part of the Royal Air Force so I don't really…but anyway, we talked and one thing led to another and suddenly we were discussing food and restaurants.  
- So what's his name?  
- Sebastian. Sebastian Moran.


	8. On My Way Back Home

Molly is eating her dinner while the bell rings. One time. Two Times_. Three Times_.

- I get it, I GET IT!

She opens the door to find a guy panting and leaning with both hands at the sides of the doorframe, his gaze fixed on the pavement: he wears an old baseball cap, a hoodie and a worn out pair of jeans.  
Molly notices the scratched and bleeding knuckles: her eyes widen, feeling her heartbeat pulsing in her throat, and she slowly reaches for the mobile still in her pocket.

- Don't. It's me. Let me in. Now!  
- Sherlock?  
- No, the fairy godmother.

Molly doesn't have time to reply that Sherlock is already in, flopping down on the couch and waiting for the young pathologist to ask stupid questions.

- So…welcome back. Do you want tea?  
- There you go.  
- I'm sorry, what?  
- Nothing. No, I don't want tea; I just need a place to hide for a couple of days.  
- Well, you got it.

Sherlock looks around him, frowning and sniffing the air, while Molly is trying to finish her dinner, willingly avoiding him.

- You have a dog.  
- I have a what?  
- A dog. There's a chewed rubber ball under the coffee table and…this smell. Also, I can see a tail behind that armchair, but it's not moving, so maybe you _don't_ have a dog, you just killed one and-…  
- Sherlock!

He looks at her, raising his eyebrows and waiting for an explanation.

- His name is Proust.  
- Proust? The novelist or the chemist? Never mind, who names a dog "Proust"?  
- Beats me, it's not mine.

Sherlock stands up and walks around the living room, touching random objects and brushing the dust off the bookshelf; Molly follows him with her eyes while sipping her tea.  
He holds his hands behind his back and looks straight in front of him.

- _À la recherche du temps perdu_. Right, Proust?

The little dog's tail begins to thump against the ground and Sherlock smiles.

- It's John', isn't it?  
- How do you-…  
- Why is it here?  
- Oh, they're out of town for a couple of days so…  
- They?  
- John and…Mary?  
- Oh, right. That…thing.  
- You mean the "thing" that John is now engaged to?

Sherlock crosses his arms and looks down at his feet: he's okay with John moving on and having a life, he's just wondering how a cute, petite blonde girl would interfere with their work.

_Our work?  
_  
- Yes. That thing.  
- Are you okay?  
- Yes, I'm fine, I'm not a kid who just lost his toy.  
- Are you going to tell him?  
- I think it'll be quite obvious when he'll see me.  
- So are you going to see him?  
- Molly, please, do keep up. I have a 16-hour journey on my back, I think I just punched a man to death for no apparent reason apart from the fact that he attacked me on my way here; I just spent the last seven months running after a criminal network bigger than the entire royal family and now I have to face the angry King who seeks revenge and wants my head on a silver plate. At the moment, I'd like to spare myself the burden of other people's clueless lives.

Molly is used to this, the verbal abuse that Sherlock displays when he feels the need to protect himself from unwanted discussions, avoiding topics he doesn't even know how to handle. It's a different kind from the one that Sherlock usually shows off while successfully trying to make you feel stupid, but it's annoying nonetheless.

- Yeah, of course, how silly of me to ask questions after almost eight months of silence, without being able to tell anybody about you, what you did or what I did,_ for you_. I don't expect you to thank me, I never did and never will, I don't want you to apologize either, just…

She waves her hands between the two of them, nose wrinkled and brows furrowed, trying to find the right words with an angry look on her face.

- just…God, you're so frustrating at times. I'm going to bed. Don't traumatize the dog.

While she marches up the stairs Sherlock hears her muttering to herself: "John is a saint".

He couldn't agree more; of course, giving John the satisfaction of knowing that isn't an option.  
He lies on the couch and takes his phone out of his pocket.

- Mycroft?

The next day, around midnight, Sherlock enters Mycroft's office for the first time in eight months.  
He stops at the doorstep with his hands in his pockets, waiting for his brother to talk.

- So. Back from your little getaway. London missed you.  
- How's John?  
- "Thank you, it's good to see you too Mycroft, you lost weight".  
- That's some good example of science fiction, yada yada yada.

Mycroft stands up and walks around his desk to stand in front of his brother in the middle of the room, his eyes trying to adjust to the transformation Sherlock went through.

- Your hair is…red. And that awful beard.  
- You've always been so sharp and intuitive. I see your hairline is receding more and more every day.  
- Did you stick to your plan?  
- Yes. Actually no. I got rid of the bishops and the knights.  
- You came back for the King.  
- Exactly.  
- How very…poetic of you.

Sherlock is now leaning with his forehead against the window: under the unforgiving glare of the street lights he looks even thinner, more exhausted than ever, and Mycroft has to fight the uncontrollable urge to check his arms.

- So how's John?  
- Engaged.  
- That's trivia I'm not interested in.  
- Of course you're not.

The younger man can sense the spiteful sarcasm but he doesn't have time for bickering.

…_why do people always assume I'm a love-struck teenager when it comes to John? If he's happy, I'm…okay with it. Sure, I don't know how that can be happiness, living a boring life as a doctor with a plain wife and some kid drooling all over you, John of all people should find this excruciatingly tedious but-…._

- So how will you end this chess match?

Sherlock comes out of his thoughts, almost startled by his brother's voice.

- I have to wait for his next move.  
- And you know what it will be?  
- Of course I do. By the way, I may have killed one or two people around the globe, would you be so kind to take care of that if my name comes up? Don't worry, they were really _bad_ people.  
- That's what brothers are for.  
- I also need my flat back.  
- Baker Street?  
- No, the rooms I have at Clarence House. Of course Baker Street!  
- That shouldn't be a problem. Are you sure it's the right move? What about the housekeeper?  
- _Landlady_. She's visiting her sister; she won't be home until next week.

As if he's reading his thoughts, Mycroft finally brings up the elephant in the room.

- John moved in with Mary Morstan, a couple of months ago.  
- Should I care?  
- I know you do.

The older Holmes shuffles with some papers on his desk, searching for the right address.

- A nice house in Walham Grove. She comes from a wealthy family, but she still works as a librarian.  
- Classic.  
- I had the same thought.  
- Right. I'd better be off. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.  
- Took you months of chasing after criminals to finally admit you need rest.

But Sherlock is already out of there.


	9. Numb

**Another heads-up: the Moran I have in mind is Tim Roth. Enough said (thanks again for the kind words, you're precious).  
**

* * *

Back at Mary's house, John is getting ready for the night.

- So where are you meeting him?  
- Russell Square Gardens, apparently.

He checks his mobile, his wallet and his car keys, and then smiles at his future wife, who's leaning against the staircase with her arms crossed.

- So it's a date.  
- Yes, of course, I'm cheating on you with an ex-soldier. Actually, it makes a lot of sense, I'm sorry, I'm leaving you.

Mary laughs and gives him a kiss.

- Should I wait for you to come back home?  
- You should always do that.

And with a warm smile he finally leaves for his "boys' night out", as Mary called it.

When John arrives, Sebastian is already waiting for him: hands in his pocket, he randomly checks the time like a nervous schoolboy, pacing slowly around the park's entrance.  
Colonel Moran is not a tall man: he's sturdy and fit, with calloused hands and a scruffy beard, and when he sees John he stands up straight, a military reflex he can't shake off.

- John, hi!  
- Hi Sebastian, I'm sorry I'm late.  
- It's fine, don't worry. There's no rush.

They walked down a few streets to a secluded pub, talking about this and that, with John still feeling a little uncomfortable about not remembering him: they sat down in a corner, both with a pint of lager in their hands.

- Look, Sebastian, I have to be honest: maybe I'm really getting old, and my memories of those months – especially the last ones – are getting more and more blurry every day, but I'm having a really hard time remembering you.

The Colonel bursts out laughing and gives him a pat on the shoulder.

- Don't worry mate, it happens more times than you can imagine. I don't blame you though, especially after what happened. I was there, you know.  
- You were?  
- Yes, I was with the 16 Air Assault Brigade, we were asked to assist the infantry regiment. We were on our fifth patrol that day, under enemy fire, and after a while I saw you crouching next to that wounded soldier. I distinctly remember thinking you were insane. Someone yelled at us to cover you but apparently we did a lousy job…  
- Hey, don't even think about it, I'm alive and I'm getting old, couldn't go better than this.

The conversation between the two of them goes on smoothly, until Sebastian hits a raw nerve.

- Must have been thrilling for you to be Holmes' sidekick once you came back.

John freezes at his words, staring at him, not sure if he actually heard a hint of jealousy and sarcasm in his voice.

- I wasn't his… Sidekick isn't the right world. I was a colleague, a friend. "His blogger".  
- May I ask you what really happened that day?

John feels a bit dizzy.

_No, not again. Calm down Watson._

He leans back on his seat and rubs his forehead.

- No, I'm sorry, you may not. If you really want to know, you can just Google it. It gives you all the information you need, even some crazy speculations on how he apparently survived the fall. It's all there, be my guest.

After a few seconds, John vision's getting blurry and he can't sit up straight; an involuntary twitch of Sebastian mouth and his sudden emotionless gaze on him makes the doctor worry, but it doesn't last long. The last thing he hears before losing consciousness is Moran whispering "it's showtime".


	10. Don't Panic

**This is getting rather fun! (plus, there's an awesome reference to a well-known movie that really fits the scene)(wink wink, nudge nudge).**

* * *

_Happiness is not a permanent state, it's a sensation._

_When people complain about being unhappy they're actually saying that they're perfectly normal human beings: you cannot be a happy person, happiness does not define who you are, it just describes a certain period of time.  
Two seconds, five minutes, six months, a year, but it will eventually fade away because it's a feeling, it has an expiration date, and after that comes normalcy.  
You could be a peaceful person, that's acceptable, or a positive one, that too makes perfect sense, but if you say to someone "I'm not a happy person" it feels like you're saying "I'm not a panicking person": of course you're not, we're drinking tea on a Sunday morning, why should you be panicking?  
And that's because panic it's like happiness, it comes and goes, a sensation you can't control, that doesn't last forever and doesn't depend on you.  
You don't just randomly decide to be happy or afraid; those are two things that require a third party: a person, a memory, an experience, a gunshot in the middle of the night, but it's not something that defines you as a person and it will end._

Right now, John is panicking and his mind is racing.  
He's been awake for about ten minutes and he found himself alone, in a pitch-black room, strapped head-to-toe to a chair with his hands tied behind his back, his mouth covered with duct tape and his head pounding.

_Drugged.  
_  
He breathes louder through his nose and the sound is echoing in the room.

_Empty._

Again, what did you save last?

_Sebastian._

- The good doctor is finally awake. Good morning sunshine!

A dark figure walks around him but John can only see his feet, lit by the feeble light coming from the curtain in front of them.

_A curtain. _

- Oh, that's right, you can't talk. Where did my manners go? I'm such a bad host.

Sebastian goes off to a corner, shuffles with something and comes back with a lit candle.  
John can finally look at him, the evil gaze he remembers seeing before everything went black: he stares at the man with furious eyes.

- Don't be mad at me, John. Hate the game, not the player.

He walks to him, pinches the duct tape at the side of John's mouth and carelessly removes it, gaining a muffled scream from the doctor.

- What game?  
- The game!

Sebastian raises his arms and grins at him.

- I'm not following you.  
- Oh, that's right. You're a boring doctor now. "Ordinary John". You lost your touch.  
- I don't think I've ever had one.  
- Oh no, you did. …You know, you really are an excellent soldier. Normal people would have screamed and cried and begged for mercy. But not you. You're the brave John Watson, the loyal companion. Kudos.  
- Thanks, I feel so warm inside.

Sebastian laughs and in a second pulls a gun from his back pocket, pointing it inches from John's forehead.

- You see what I mean? Even with a gun pointed at you. Of course, your breathing is uneven, shallow, rapid, and sweat is glistening your face, but you get the gist right?

Sebastian tucks his gun in his waistband and resumes walking around John.

- What do you want?  
- Is this your first question? I'm disappointed, Watson. I've prepared this whole speech to-…  
- Who are you?  
- Good boy, you've done your homework. I'm sorry I don't have any treats for you.  
- You're stalling. You like the sound of your voice don't you? Why don't you just kill me? What's the meaning of this charade?

They look at each other for a while, the colonel wears his customary evil smile and John finally understands what's going on.

- You remind me of someone.  
- Oh no! You've just ruined everything!  
- So how does it feel to be someone's sidekick?

The colonel nervously chuckles to himself.

- Oh, you're good. I'm hurt! But you see, John, I wasn't. He was the criminal mastermind and I was just following orders, like a soldier. The truth is…I rather liked that. After coming home from Afghanistan I missed the action, I miss the thrill of killing and he gave me a purpose. I guess that makes us alike.  
- I guess so. Except for the fact that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a criminal and I don't go around killing innocent people.  
- You don't? Gosh, so boring.

John grows impatient and grits his teeth, moving his wrists to get some relief.

- What is it that you want? Torture me?  
- Torture you? That's good, that's a good idea, I like that one.

Sebastian leans against a wall and crosses his arms.

- You know, someone will eventually realize I'm missing.  
- Eventually. Someone. She's cute, isn't she? I mean, if you like that sort of thing. The tame beauty.  
- Don't you ever try to-…  
- Blah blah blah blah, I don't really care John and if I wanted to kill her she'd be dead already.

The doctor closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

- So you want revenge, right?  
- Right, yes, that's what I want, thanks for reminding me, I kinda lost track of my plans here.  
- Why me? I haven't done anything.  
- Oh, but you did. It's all your fault.  
- And how's that?

The colonel looks almost sad while sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.

- You see…before you came along Sherlock Holmes wasn't living up to his true potential. Let's face it: he was a junkie who randomly entertained himself with cases he considered boring and dull. And he liked that, don't get me wrong, he was already basking in his glory, but still, he wasn't the "great" Sherlock Holmes. But then _you_came. The faithful John Watson, who sticks around in sickness and in health, and guess what, he…blossomed into the man we all loved to hate.

John shakes his head.

- This is all very fascinating, but – excuse my French – what the fuck are you talking about?  
- Getting restless, are we? Calm down love, don't get your knickers in a twist.  
- Get to your point or kill me.  
- Don't play with fire, Watson.

Sebastian stands up with the gun in his hand: he reaches John, gets down on his knees, only inches away from the doctor's face, pointing the weapon to the man's neck.

- Long story short Captain: Sherlock needed to impress someone, and that someone was you. You…galvanized him. You gave him a reason to be the man he wanted to be.

John holds his gaze, breathing harder and considering giving him a head-butt when Sebastian moves to whisper in his ear.

- There was only one _liiiittle_ problem, John. My boss didn't like that.

Moran quickly stands up, startling John, yelling.

- He warned you. I was there at the pool, you know? I was pointing the gun at your chest, how cute is that? We have memories together.  
- Yeah, I feel so special.  
- Remember? He told Sherlock to back off and-…  
- Listen, let's cut the crap. It feels strange saying this about a psychopath who killed people for fun, but I'm sorry for your loss. I get it, you loved him, you were faithful to him just like I was to Sherlock, I get it, we're alike, we killed people for different reasons but we did, I understand that but…why all this? We played the same game and got the same result, we both lost someone and we're both losers.

Sebastian turns around to face John, his evil smirk gone, and he stares at him with a grave look on his face.

- And this is where you're wrong, Captain. We didn't get the same result.

He walks towards the curtain and waits for John's reaction.

- Wha…what do you mean? Sherlock is dead. Moriarty is dead. I don't…I don't get it, what are you saying?  
- I'm saying….

Moran pulls a rope and the velvet curtain opens to reveal a huge glass door.

_Baker Street.  
_


	11. Another Way To Die

**Hi there! Me again. For those of you who aren't familiar with the books, I just wanted to tell you that the story I'm following is basically the original one, with a few changes, of course. I love fanfiction, I love Johnlock stories with completely made up scenarios, as long as I'm not writing them, so I wanted this one to be as plausible as possible. Hope I'm doing a decent work at least. Also, I'm uploading every day because I don't want people to lose track of the story, it happens to me so many times and I hate it. Enjoy! And thanks again for reviewing, you literally make my day. **

* * *

- Tadaaaaaaan!  
- What...what's...why…?  
- I know right? This is sooooo…

Moran pauses for a couple of seconds, wiggling his fingers in the air trying to find the right word.

- …dramatic!  
- I don't get it.  
- Understandable.

He claps his hands and starts walking around John's chair.

- Let's see...I suppose you don't believe in ghosts, right doctor Watson? And I suppose you don't believe in zombies either. So how…

Sebastian raises his right arm.

- ….is that…

He walks towards the window and points.

- …possible?

After a moment of confusion, John focuses his attention in front of him.

_Baker Street. My old flat. Living room. There's someone reading, sitting on Sherl-…on that armchair.  
_  
- I'm sorry, is this supposed to…trigger something?  
- Oh, dear God, how did he put up with your useless brain!  
- Who?

Sebastian rubs his face vigorously, exhaling; he paces angrily towards John, bends over him and whispers again in his ear.

- That, my dear Watson, is your best friend. Reading.

He stands up and starts to yell, bouncing around the room.

- In his armchair! Alive! Can you believe it? I honestly couldn't. I saw him jump. Just like you!

The inflection of Sebastian's voice - resembling way too much the craziness in Moriarty's tone – makes John cringe.

- What you didn't see, John, is that...

Right now Moran is laughing, a nervous laugh that makes John more worried than a gun aimed at his neck.

- He didn't die. To be honest, when he jumped I was still pointing the gun sight at your pretty face, so the memory of that moment is a bit of a blur for me.  
- Gun sight?

John feels his heartbeat pulsing in his temples, his palms are sweating and he's feeling nauseous.

- That man…that man…  
- Yes?  
- Is not…NOT Sherlock Holmes. He's dead. He jumped. There was…blood and…I felt it…no pulse…there's no way…  
- Breathe John. It's alright. Oh, wait; I know what's bothering you. It's the hair, isn't it? He's a redhead now. It's a disguise. Like that would help, am I right? I know how you feel. I don't like that look either. Too shabby.

Sebastian looks at John with a huge grin on his face, waiting for him to say something.

- You really expect me to believe all this…with no evidence. Just the back of a head, in a chair that used to be his, in what used to be our flat, which apparently is someone else's now. I need more than that to-...  
-Alright then. I'll prove it to you.

The colonel reaches for a briefcase; he opens it and scratches his beard.

- Let's see what we have here. RIGHT! You see this? What's this?

John blinks.

- A photo?  
- Oh, my, God! That's brilliant! Make an effort John, you're ruining everything. You see this man? Who's this? …Come oooon, you're almost there.

He comes close, pointing his finger at a man sitting at a table in a bar: he wears a hat and a pair of sunglasses.

- I know you can't see his eyes but that face is unmistakable right? And those hands too. You recognize them right? He was in Van, Turkey. He killed two of my men there.

He takes a bunch of other photos and shows them to an impassive John, willing to not fall for this pantomime.

- And this? This was taken in Ataq, Yemen. I bet he thought "hey, I'm alone in this godforsaken town, I can take my cap off and run my hands through my beautiful hair, right?" And what about this? It's my favourite. Islamabad. You can really appreciate his beautiful eyes in this one, it's really good, I must say, I'm an excellent photograph-…  
- ENOUGH! Sherlock Holmes is dead!

Moran stares at John with a pitiful smile.

- Poor John. It must be hard for you. I can only imagine what it's like, grieving for a man who turns out he faked his own death. And for what? To save people. Hardly a good reason.  
- Okay, let's assume for a minute that you're not in fact a delusional psychopath who's trying to kill me or whatever it is that you're doing. Let's do this, shall we?  
- Let's.  
- Right. So Sherlock is alive. It makes perfect sense. He jumped and what, bounced back? Oh, wait, I get it, he fell inside the Tardis, right? God knows where he might be right now. Should we call The Doctor?

The hurt and confused look on Sebastian's face gives John a newfound confidence.

- I'm sorry, I don't get the reference. Doctor who?

John leans his head back and laughs, genuinely, forgetting for a couple of second the gravity of the situation, which triggers Moran's rage even more. He clenches his teeth and something inside of him snaps.

- This isn't a game, John. You wanna know why you're here?  
- Finally! It's been ages!  
- Don't get cocky, kid.

Sebastian crouches beside John and pulls a bag from under his chair; he opens it and starts assembling a tripod, while John catches a glimpse of a sniper rifle inside of it.

- This is what I meant when I said "showtime".  
- Are you going to kill me with a sniper rifle on a tripod? Seriously?  
- You're not going to die, John.

With those words, Moran nods towards the window and Baker Street.

- You're going to kill an innocent man?  
- What's the matter? You don't think it's him so who cares, right?  
- What do you mean _who cares_, you can go around killing people for no reason! Kill me instead, you said it yourself, I'm the cause of your problems!  
- You brave, heroic man. You'll never change. Willing to risk his life to save innocent strangers. So cute.  
- Stop this, it won't change anything.  
- You think? I know you're adamant about it, but that man really _is_ Sherlock Holmes. This _is_ my revenge. I will kill him in front of you just like he forced Jim to kill himself in front of me.

John looks at him with his mouth open, eyes filled with a mixture of rage and pure fear.

- You're insane.  
- STOP THE PRESS, John Watson has breaking news: I'm insane! You of all people should know that pain can do funny things to a person. Although, to be fair, I've always been insane so…

Moran chuckles and turns to John with an apologetic smile; he stands up with the tripod in one hand and the rifle in the other.

- No, don't.  
- You finally believe me?  
- If I say yes, if I say that I believe that man is Sherlock Holmes, would you let this go? I'm not calling Scotland Yard, I'm not coming after you, I will just forget about this. And you.  
- Seriously? How stupid do you think I am? I'm not going to change my mind. It's just…if you believe me, if you're finally convinced that man is your best friend, this gets…much more entertaining. Oh, I'm dying to see your face when you'll finally realize what I've done.

Sebastian is staring at him with a smug look, ignoring for a moment the scenery outside the window.  
With the corner of his left eye, John sees the man in his old flat moving, slowly turning his head to the side: his movements have a dramatic flair that John finds familiar, and his profile is now clear under the dim light of the Moon Lamp. It takes him only a couple of seconds.

_Sh…Sherl…Sherlo-_

- SHERLOCK!

At John's cry, Moran acts quickly: his head snaps towards the window, he crouches beside the rifle to get a better look and his index finger is slowly and carefully caressing the trigger.  
In the meantime, John realizes his chair is nailed to the ground: he can't move, can't attack him and can't stop him. He's panting, sweating, his heart his racing and the fear is slowly eating him from the inside.

- DON'T, I BELIEVE YOU, DON'T, PLEASE, STOP. DON'T!  
- You didn't listen to me, John. I don't care

Sebastian's pride makes him turn his head towards John to enjoy his panicking look, losing sight of his target for a moment; when he focuses back on the window, John closes his eyes.

_A gunshot in the middle of the night._


	12. Little Lion Man

The last thing John saw was Moran pointing his rifle.  
The last thing John heard was the gunshot.  
The last thing John thought was "now it's really over".

And then he passed out, too much for him to handle for a second time in less than a year.

What he didn't see, was Lestrade pointing a gun to Moran and shooting him in the shoulder.  
But that wasn't enough: the sudden pain made Moran pull the trigger involuntarily.  
What nobody saw was Sherlock switching his body with a wax mannequin.

- Could somebody please go to Baker Street and find out what the bloody hell happened?

Lestrade is yelling orders while a group of paramedics rushes towards John and Moran: Sebastian is holding his arm, screaming and ranting about plans and revenge, while John is motionless, his chin resting on his chest.

- John! JOHN! Is he alright?

A paramedic unties him from the chair and John automatically falls into his arms, still unconscious.

- His breathing is regular, as well as his pulse and blood pressure. I think it was just the shock; we'll have to wait until he wakes up.

In the meantime, a man bursts into the room, yelling.

- YOU DIDN'T KILL HIM!

A couple of agents are rushing behind him with an apologetic look, like parents running after a hyperactive kid.

- They don't teach us to kill people, they show us how to stop them. We don't kill.  
- I knew I should have handled this myself, you just scratched the second most dangerous man in London, and he'll probably get away with-…

Sherlock finally reaches Lestrade when all of a sudden he turns pale, his eyes widen and his mouth hangs in shock. His voice is feeble now and his fingers are trembling.

- John.  
- You didn't know?  
- No, I didn't kn-…how I was I supposed to…I mean…how?  
- Moran kidnapped him. I'm not sure why, since he didn't lay a finger on him.  
- I guess…I mean…he clearly wanted him to suffer like he did with Moriarty.

Lestrade stares at him with a mixture of surprise and sadness and just when he's about to reply, John starts mumbling something: Sherlock jumps as if a wave of cold water has hit his feet and Greg immediately crouches by his side.

- John? Are you with us? John?  
- What… what happened?  
- You were kidnapped.  
- Who…who did…  
- Sebastian Moran?

Then, as if the name triggered something in his memory, John quickly stands up, stumbling around, trying to reach the glass door and leaning against it with his open palms.

- Was that…was that real?  
- What do you mean?  
- I mean, I saw him. I saw Sherlock. Was it the drug? Because he drugged me, I don't know what substance he us-…

John turns around to face Lestrade and sees him.  
Sherlock often thought about this moment; he imagined John's surprise, maybe fear, followed by rage and possibly a punch, pretending explanations and excuses, but he didn't expect this: John is still, deadpan, like he's waiting at a checkout counter.

He stares at Sherlock for a while but doesn't say a word, to him or Lestrade, and then walks away.

The detective inspector is more worried than Sherlock is, and tries to follow John out of the room.

- John, wait!  
- Nope.  
- You don't know what happened, let him explain.  
- I don't care, I have to go home. I have a fiancé who's probably worried sick about me, since it's…

John checks his watch while rushing down the stairs that lead to the street, with Greg right behind him and Sherlock taking his time, not sure if a confrontation right now would be the best thing.

- Jesus Christ, it's four in the morning!  
- John, wait, Mary's here.

John freezes right outside the building: at least ten police cars with their lights on are now in front of him.  
At his right, a bunch of people in their pyjamas and night-gowns who have gathered in the street after hearing the gunshot; at his left, Mycroft and his crying future wife.

- MARY!  
- John what happened! Are you okay, what…what's going on, what happened?

Mary looks at him with a distressed and inquiring look: her eyes are puffy, wide and red, her cheeks are stained with tears, her hands are shaking and she can barely stand up. John doesn't know what to say or where to begin: my dead best friend came back to life and then a psychopath tried to kill him in front of me to get his revenge?

The ex-army doctor decides not to answer Mary's questions and instead starts stroking her hair trying to calm her down; after a while, seeing her like that makes him realize something: it's all his fault.

- Mary, could you do me a favor and wait here?  
- Why, no, what are you doing, where are you going?  
- I'm not going anywhere; I just need you to wait here okay?

John leaves a worried Mary in the safe hands of a paramedic, and then starts pacing furiously towards Sherlock, who's still talking to Lestrade.

- YOU!

Sherlock turns around and sees John almost running.

- You selfish prick!  
- John, please, don't jump to conclusions, let me expl-…

The last thing Sherlock saw was John's left fist.


	13. Entangled

**You're too kind. Seriously. Thank you.**

* * *

Sherlock wakes up lying down on the couch in his old flat; he tries to open his eyes but what he feels can only be described as multiple stabs in the head and the early morning light coming from the window feels like a torture. He clenches his fists and bites his lower lip.

- You hit your head on the sidewalk.

Sherlock is startled by his brother's voice but remains with his eyes closed.

- John?  
- He's here.  
- I'm here as a doctor, nothing more. I don't want you to call me and wake me up just because "I don't know if my brother is still breathing".

He reaches Sherlock and takes his left wrist between his thumb and his middle finger, keeping an eye on his watch.

- John, I…  
- Shut up. I don't care.  
- Please don't be childish, we need to talk.

John squeezes Sherlock's wrist, pressing way too much on his vein causing Sherlock to grimace in pain.

- I said: drop it.

The doctor lets Sherlock's arm flop down on the couch.

- Right, I'm going. He's fine, wake him up every two hours and if he doesn't, well, amen.  
- Dr. Watson, don't act like this, it doesn't suit you. You're better than this.

Sherlock is silent and wishes his brother would just leave John alone, while the latter is already putting his jacket on, leaving.

- He's not my problem anymore.  
- You're his doctor!  
- I'm not anyone's doctor.

John rushes down the stairs and the sound of his steps fading away makes Sherlock snap: he stands up quickly, almost falling on the coffee table while Mycroft is holding him with both hands.

- What the hell are you doing?  
- I need to talk to him.  
- Not right now, you can't even stand up straight and open your eyes!

Sherlock flails, trying to escape his brother's firm grip, failing miserably and falling down on his knees.

- Sherlock, please, give him some time, you can't expect him to forgive you right away.  
- I don't want him to! I want him to be mad, to yell at me, throw things at me, pretending, demanding, losing his patience. I want him to know what happened!  
- He will, but it's been a long night for him, he's been kidnapped for God's sake, cut him some slack!  
- NO! Nobody cut me any slack in the last seven months, where I did everything I could to make sure he could go on with his life.

The only consulting detective in the world is now sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, his knees bent and his head resting on his hands.

- His stupid, tedious, ordinary life that I made sure he still had. He's still alive because of me. I don't expect him to forgive me right away, I never expected him to be happy to see me, I never once thought about him taking me in his life again without complaining, but I'm not accepting this. I'm not okay with him not knowing why, I won't accept indifference.  
- You fueled indifference around you for so many years. I guess this is what people call "karma".

Sherlock raises his head and finally opens his eyes to shoot a maddened look at his brother.

- What are you still doing here, Mycroft?  
- Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He sighs and reaches for his coat when John's voice breaks the silence: he's standing on the doorstep and he's looking at Sherlock with an incredulous look.

- Can't you see? Can't you see how selfish you are, even now? With all that's happened, with what I've been through, not just tonight but for the last year, all you can think about is that? You can't stand the fact that for once in my life I'm putting my well-being before yours, that I'm not here hanging on your every word and move and-…  
- John, don't talk to me about putting someone else's life before everything else because-…  
- Shut up you arsehole, you're not supposed to talk! You know why I don't care about your explanations? You wanna know why I'm not taking any more crap from you? Because I feel stupid.

John is panting, pointing his finger to a rare surprised Sherlock.

- I was your partner, I was the other half of the team, I was supposed to be the one involved in all of this, with you, but you cut me out. I don't question your motives, call me stupid but I don't think someone would actually risk his life just to play games or have fun, I'm sure you have some quite reasonable and noble explanations for what happened, but I wasn't part of it. You could have told me. I was a soldier, for crying out loud! I had a Semtex vest on me, I risked my life almost every day with you and _for_you, and you thought I couldn't handle this? You can't stand indifference, I can't stand feeling stupid.

Silence falls in the room and Mycroft feels like he's in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
After a while where everything stood still, even their breaths, John shuffles on his feet and takes off.

- Well. That was certainly interesting. I'm going home too, text me if you need anythi-…

Mycroft's words are cut off by Sherlock's quick movements: he stands up and rushes behind John, and when the doctor turns to face him with a hand already on the knob of the door, he stops halfway down the stairs.

- Correct me if I'm wrong, John. You're accusing me of ignoring your feelings, your "well-being" and emotions, putting them aside just because I can't stand indifference, and at the same time, you decide to ignore what I've done for you, what I've been through for the past months to ensure your existence on this planet, just because you feel stupid?

They look at each other for a while then John opens the door and slams it behind him.


	14. Now Mary

When John comes back home it's almost eight in the morning and Mary is waiting for him in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea; an exhausted John sits in front of her and runs his hands through his hair.

- Good morning.

He smiles at Mary, trying to act as normal as possible, but she is staring at him with the most worried look he has ever seen.

- What's wrong?

Mary widens her eyes and chuckles nervously.

- Seriously? You get kidnapped by a psychopath who tries to kill your – apparently alive – best friend and you're asking me what's wrong? Why don't you start with an explanation?  
- It's not something easy to explain Mary, what you just said weirdly makes sense and sums it up pretty well.  
- No, you won't get away with "what you just said". John, someone woke me up in the middle of the night saying you were in danger, two minutes after that I found myself in someone else's car, scared out of my mind, with Mycroft Holmes sitting in front of me and telling me bits of random information. When I arrived at Baker Street they told me to wait in the car, Scotland Yard was there waiting for something to happen, and nobody was talking to me. _Nobody_. I was asking questions and then one of the agents told me you were in there, with a killer. Then the gunshot happened. Where do you find the guts to dismiss what just happened?

John takes a deep breath.

- You know about my past, Mary.  
- I know of it, but I thought it was over.  
- I thought so too.  
- So now what? Am I supposed to worry every time you walk out of our door? Do we need constant protection? Am I going to get crazy with fear every time the phone rings and you're not with me?

John stands up and walks around the kitchen: he'd love to have all the answers, he'd love to give Mary the safe and peaceful future she wants and deserves, but right now everything's changed.

- Sherlock is back.  
- So what? He's back and I'm out?

John rushes to her side, kneeling before her and taking her hands in his.

- No, no, don't ever think that, it won't happen, I promise. It's just… I told you how he is, he won't take no for an answer.  
- No about what?  
- Well, for starters, I refused to hear his reasons. I don't wanna know what happened and why, I just-…  
- Hold on, wait a minute: you find out that your best friend is alive and you don't want to know what happened? You saw him jump and smashed against the pavement and you don't care what he has to say?

The doctor stares silently at his future wife and then walks towards the counter, before leaning against it with both hands.

- What would you have done?  
- Well…the punch was alright. But I thought you spent all these hours trying to patch things up. I would if I were in your shoes.  
- You wouldn't be mad at him?  
- Of course I would, but aren't you relieved that he's alive? Whatever happened, he's your best friend.  
- I know, but-…  
- No, John, you don't understand.

Mary stands up and reaches John: she smiles and places a hand on his cheek.

- I never told you this, but when we first met I knew who you were. I knew about you, Sherlock and your past. I was an avid reader of your blog, but I never asked you anything about that, and you know why? Because your eyes were constantly filled with sadness and regret. I know you put up a brave face for everybody, and then for me too, but I saw you, I watched you. When something reminds you of him you involuntarily cringe in pain. When we walk around the city and we hold hands sometimes, out of the blue, you squeeze mine so hard it hurts, and then I realize we're actually walking by a memory of him: a building, a street, a corner, a restaurant. I'm not blind. I never asked you about that because I waited for you to come clean, I wanted you to follow your own pace, your instinct, your feelings, and I was honored when you finally did. I know what he was for you. He was the center of your world, there's no shame in that. Don't look at me like that, I don't mean it in a romantic kind of way, but in a realistic analysis of what your life was: you lived with him, you worked with him, you risked your life for him without thinking about it twice, and you followed him everywhere. He _was_ your life. I know you tried to hide it many times but the pain you felt was everywhere and I respected that, I almost cherished that because meeting Sherlock and spending time with him made you the man you're now and I couldn't be happier about it. So please, John, please, don't let your pride ruin everything. You both got a second chance. I need explanations, I need to know what's going on, but you have to talk to him first.

John doesn't look at her and crosses his arms like a child who just got a lecture on how to behave with his friends. Mary sees that and tries to give him the final proof of what she's saying.

- Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?  
- No. I must look like crap, I'm exhausted. I don't know what keeps me standing.  
- Well…I know.

She takes his hand and they walk around the corner, in front a mirror.

- Don't you see?  
- What?  
- You're not tired, John. You've been awake for nearly a day, you've been under huge amounts of stress, and you look…rested. I don't know what he does to you but I'd say we keep him.  
- I _am_ tired.  
- Don't lie to me Watson. Or to yourself. Your eyes are…different. There's a spark I've never seen before and you look five years younger.  
- That's ridiculous.  
- What about the punch you gave him?  
- What about it?  
- You seriously don't remember what you did?  
- What are you talking about?  
- You punched him. And then you walked back to me.  
- Yes?  
- You were smiling, John.


	15. We Never Change

The room is quiet.  
Sherlock Holmes is sitting, staring in front of him.  
His gaze isn't fixed on something in particular; he just looks lost, empty, almost on the verge of sleep.

It's ten o'clock in the evening when his thoughts are interrupted by someone in the room clearing his throat: seeing John standing there, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence, makes Sherlock smile, one of his rare genuine displays of emotions.

- Evening, John.

The doctor doesn't say a word, but instead drops a huge folder on the coffee table, so heavy it almost tips over the cold cup of tea next to it.

- You brought work?

Sherlock reaches out and slowly opens it.  
The first thing he notices is a little piece of paper inside a transparent plastic bag: the message he left for John before jumping.

- I see.

Under that, a stack of newspaper clippings, pages printed from random internet sites, notes and photocopies.

- You've done your homework.  
- Don't be a smartass.

With those words, John flops down on the couch, opposite of Sherlock.

- I'm not being sarcastic, my words are genuine.  
- Well, I did what you asked me to, _as usual_. I kept thinking.

Sherlock shuffles with the contents of the folder and he's rendered speechless by what he sees in front of him: amongst others, there are clippings from the Adair case and the one about the mysterious murders of the "two English citizens found dead in Van, Turkey". There are indecipherable notes – doctor's writing – and printed e-mails from fans who claim to have seen Sherlock around town after his "death".

- You believed these?  
- Of course not. They just…I don't know, they made me feel less alone. Do you know that a couple of weeks after your death people started writing on walls "Sherlock Holmes is alive" or "Richard Brook is a fake"?

Sherlock chuckles.

- Yeah, I was still here when it happened. The homeless network started it.

After a moment of silence Sherlock sighs and turns to face his friend.

- John, I need to tell why I did…what I did.  
- Go on. I'm listening.  
- Well. Like you said, this isn't something people do just to have fun or play games with criminal masterminds, as much as I liked to. Do you remember, outside that journalist house? I had one of my…epiphanies. I knew I was going to die. Or at least that was what Moriarty wanted me to do. I needed a plan so I went to the morgue to talk to Molly.  
- Molly helped you right? She had a strange look every time she tried to talk to me, like I was some kind of ticking bomb.  
- Yes, you know her. I'm actually surprised she hasn't broken down sooner.  
- Give her some credit, Sherlock.  
- I did, that's why I put my life in her hands, literally.

Sherlock is now pacing around the room, holding his hands behind his back, and John closes his eyes in disbelief, finding the moment familiar yet surreal.

- So?  
- So…I went on the roof and Moriarty was there waiting for me. Long story short, "you have to die but I won't kill you so if you don't jump your friends will die".

John sighs and rubs his left temple.

- Yeah, Moran mentioned this.  
- What did he tell you?  
- That he was targeting me while you were about to jump.

There's a moment of silence and then John leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees; he licks his lips and then stares intensely at Sherlock.

- Because you jumped, right?  
- I jumped.

The doctor looks at the detective, cocking his head to the side, waiting for an explanation.

- There was a rubbish truck.  
- So you landed there.  
- More or less.  
- Did you think about the possibility of Moran seeing you alive?  
- At that moment, Moran was targeting you, that's why I asked you to stay put, so both of you wouldn't see my landing, given the considerable distance between you and the sidewalk. It was a matter of seconds, I had to act quickly. The first person who arrived on the scene added the fake blood.  
- So how did he find out you weren't dead?

Sherlock sits on the couch again and turns to John with a look that screams "forgive me".

- You have to understand John. Moriarty was the Devil himself. He planned all this, the little speech he gave me on the roof about me being on the side of the angels, wanting me to fall into disgrace. I think someone could easily find a biblical allegory for all of this. Then I found a loophole in his sick scheme but he went a step ahead again by killing himself.  
- I believe you.  
- That doesn't mean forgiveness.  
- Sherlock, could you please consider my point of view for a second? I thought I was supposed to be the one involved in these kinds of things.  
- But you were the target, John.  
- Doesn't matter, I felt stupid and alone. Did you think about the actual consequences of your actions?  
- I did.  
- Did you? You would never be able to live with yourself if you knew what I've been through.  
- I _can't_ live with myself.

It's almost a whisper and John has to repeat his friend's words in his head a couple of time.

- I understand what you did; I would have done the same.  
- I know you would.  
- I don't know about the _waiting-eight-months-to-tell-you-I'm-alive part_, but I get it.  
- It was hard for me too.  
- Was it?  
- Are you implying that it was easy for me? Lying to you and admitting defeat to the only person whose opinions matter to me?  
- So why did you lie?  
- What did you expect, _hey John, I'm still a genius but I decided it's time to die_?

They look at each other and after a while John bursts out laughing, followed by Sherlock.

- We can't giggle about this.  
- Show some respect for the deceased, John.

The laughs fade away and they both sigh.

- I was in so much pain.  
- I know.  
- I didn't let anybody see that, as much as I could, but sometimes…really Sherlock, it was almost hard to breathe. The weeks after that are a blur to me, I had blackouts during the day, I slept most of the time and when I didn't I was in some kind of…mind palace. An empty one.

The detective shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

- You heard me cry. Right?  
- I did.  
- So, if you know me, I don't need to tell you anything else.

John looks at him and stands up. Sherlock instinctively reaches out for him, touching his right arm.

- Don't go. I'm sorry.  
- Me too.  
- … I see.

Without saying a word, Sherlock walks to his room: John is entitled to leave, he has all the right to do that and never come back, but that doesn't mean Sherlock wants to witness the moment he turns his back on their friendship.  
Ten minutes pass by and Sherlock rushes back into the living room, pacing furiously, determined to find all the secret stashes he planted in the past and that John never found, when he suddenly stops and his eyes widen: John is sitting at the desk, typing slowly at Sherlock's computer.

- So what should we call this? "The Adventure of the Empty Warehouse"?

* * *

**So this is it, folks! This is the last chapter. This was basically how a pictured a possible reunion, so it has to end this way. I plan on doing more – if someone's interested –, solely based on the original stories and how a possible "Mofftiss" adaptation would be like, at least in my head. A way to cope with the insufferable hiatus they are putting us through. I hope you enjoyed it and I am really **_**really**_** grateful for all your reviews and comments; I'm not just saying that because it's what people usually do around here, I really mean it. It's my first fic so I started writing with very low expectations and this is all new to me, every comment and story alert made me jump with joy (literally). Hope to see you next time :)**


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